Not Your Happy Ending
by Hatsepsut
Summary: This is a collection of unrelated one-shots that are all angsty little tear-jerkers. To be updated whenever the muse gets into a melancholy mood, or she wants something darker. Both DAO and DAII, various pairings. requests not just accepted; they are encouraged. The rating is M for language and dark themes. Step right in, and bring a tissue.
1. Chapter 1

Fenris scowled at the short, rotund bartender. "What do you mean, someone wants to meet me?"

The man continued polishing the glass with a ratty, dirty old rag. "A lad came in, asking about someone of your description. Said he'd be at the Dead Man's Crossing tavern at noon, if you were interested."

"I am not."

The bartender chuckled. "He knew you might say that. He told me to tell you '_I am what magic touched that it didn't spoil_' if you did."

Fenris froze in place. It couldn't be.

"_I guess there is no easy way to say this, so I'll just say it: I'm pregnant." Hawke said, twisting her hands nervously on her lap._

"_Congratulations."_

"_It's yours," her eyes pleaded with him to look at her, but he resisted. Cold dread had spread through him at her words; blind panic. _

"_I am well aware," he finally spat. "But I want nothing to do with it."_

Seventeen years had passed since that day. Seventeen years, since the day he had walked out, his every step leaden with guild. But he could not be a father to a half-elven baby, one who would probably end up being a mage. He could not stay and play house with Hawke. He could not-_would not_- let himself love her. He would not shackle himself to her- a powerful mage, one that threatened to enslave him just as surely as any collar could.

Her tear drenched eyes as was leaving had remained with him all these years; his nightmares were haunted by them. Sad, heartbroken eyes, brimming with tears, and her almost inaudible whisper.

"_Fenris, please don't go. I love you. Stay with me, stay with us."_

He had left the city of chains that very night. It had broken what was left of his heart, but he had, not once looking back.

He didn't trust her; not what she was, not what she said, not what she professed to feel about him. He just couldn't.

News came to him in the years that followed, of Hawke being named Champion of Kirkwall after foiling a Qunari invasion. Then the world had exploded into chaos; the rumours had it that it had been Anders that had started the Mage Rebellion, by blowing up the Chantry, assisted by his lover, the Champion of Kirkwall, Marian Hawke. Posters carrying sketches of their faces and rewards that kept climbing higher and higher had appeared all over Thedas.

But there had been no talk of her ever having a child so Fenris had assumed she'd gotten rid of it.

In the years that had passed, he'd come across bounty hunters that were looking for her; they had all assumed he would know of her whereabouts. Sebastian had once tried to hire him to lead the search for her and Anders, but he had refused.

He might not have loved her, but he never wished her any harm.

Sometimes...sometimes, after a particular gruelling fight, or a cold, frigid night camping out on the open, he would remember her, allowing himself to dredge up fond memories; her smile, radiant after a fight. The way she blew on his fingers once to warm them when they had been camping on the Wounded Coast. Her girly laughter, which had the ability to warm his insides like warm spiked cider.

He had refused to love her, back then, had resisted letting his walls down, had ruthlessly and savagely suppressed any tender feelings her easy, open affection had sparked in his heart. He had carved a nice little pigeonhole of prejudice and tucked her in there: mage, monster, seductress.

He hadn't let himself love her.

Had he?

No, no he hadn't. He had managed to walk away from her tear drenched eyes, he had not been captured by the false promise of her love. He had not been enslaved to yet another mage, one that used chains of sweet love words and tender touches, that caused him pain by not inflicting any, confusing him to no end. He had not let himself be fooled, he had remained free.

What if sometimes he thought of what might have been if he had been a different kind of man? What if he grew irrationally angry at the thought that she had taken up with the abomination after he had left? What if his own words rang into every one of his nightmares?

"_I want nothing to do with it."_

Apparently, _it_ wanted something to do with him, because he could think of no other lad that could possibly know these words than the child he'd thought Hawke had gotten rid of.

It was a _he_, then, and would now be...what? Sixteen?

He had a son.

He looked up at the pale winter sun...a half an hour or so to noon. Swearing to himself, he quickened his pace, handing to the Dead Man's Crossing. He didn't want to go. Maker, he knew he would hear nothing good about himself, but he couldn't help it...that night...he could still remember it as if it had been yesterday. If a child had come of it, if she hadn't gotten rid of it, _him_, he needed to know.

_I want nothing to do with it_. But it was a _he_ now, and Fenris felt morbidly curious: what, _who_, had he abandoned all these years ago?

* * *

He entered the tavern and blinked a few times to help his eyes adjust to the gloom in the dimly lit tavern. The patrons in the tables fell silent for a moment, accessing him for potential danger, then shrugged and carried on with their conversations and their ales.

He let his gaze wonder around the tavern, and spotted a hooded figure in one of the tables farther away, tucked into a nook by the wall. A hand lifted a mug of ale, and he could see that the hand had a white-knuckled grip on the mug. So. That was _him_.

Fenris made his way to the table, quaking inside, but eerily composed on the surface. The hood slid back, and a young face turned up to look at him.

Fenris drew in a sharp breath and then held it, fighting against the shock.

His own eyes were gazing at him out from a youthful, handsome face, shaded by the same pitch black hair that Hawke had sported, long and tied back with a leather strap. Hawke's mouth; Hawke's chin, Hawke's nose, Fenris' eyes. That mouth that was so like the woman's he had once known so intimately rose up on one corner; a wry, self-mocking smile.

"Well, well. Father. So nice to finally meet you."

His voice. Maker, the lad had his voice, a bit thinner, a bit more childish, not fully matured into his own gravely baritone yet. But it was definitely Fenris' voice.

He took a seat without even looking, his gaze –round eyed and shocked- still on the lad's face. "What is your name?" he managed to ask, his eyes still trailing over the boy's face, scrutinizing every little detail, finding more and more similarities with the woman he had once abandoned. There. That little dimple when he smiled; that was Hawke's too.

The lad looked away then his wry, sarcastic smile grew a bit larger. "Leto Wolfgang Hawke," he drawled. "People call me Wolf."

Fenris drew back, a shocked gasp escaping him. "She named you after me?"

Wolf's smile turned bitter. "Why not? You are my sire, aren't you?" he then pursed his lips and looked at his mug, a sad look suddenly shading his eyes. "Wolfgang was Anders' real name, the one he had before the Circle. Ironic, isn't it? It means 'the path of the wolf'...both my fathers were named after wolves. So Wolf seemed appropriate."

Fenris tensed up. "Both your fathers?"

The lad's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me. Dad's name was Wolfgang. You are nothing to me."

He rose up to leave and Fenris felt a small twinge of alarm slash through him; he hadn't gotten the answers to the questions he had yet. He grabbed the arm the boy extended to toss some coins on the table.

Wolf looked at the hand that was touching him with barely veiled contempt and under the accusation in those green eyes, Fenris had to pull back.

"Where is your mother?"

A small flash of pain. "When dad got his Calling, she went with him, less than a year ago. She refused to let him face the deep on his own. She is dead, as is my dad."

Fenris fell back, the thought of Hawke not being a part of this world any more a wound on his very soul. For the first time in years, his heart gave a painful lurch and grief flooded him... she was dead. She had followed Anders to his death.

"Why the heartbroken look?" Wolf sneered. "You left her. You left us both. All my life I had been wondering...I asked her time and time again; why had my father not wanted me? And all she ever said was that you were a good man, but that loved scared you."

The young boy's lip curled in contempt.

"Pathetic, if you ask me."

Anger rose like a wave inside of Fenris. "Is that why you wanted to see me? To taunt me?"

The boy tilted his head to the side –another one of Hawke's trademark moves- and regarded him with nothing more than mild contempt. "No," he finally said then pointed to a sack he had left by his seat. "These are mother's journals. I read them after she died...and since most of them are addressed to you, I though you should read them."

He leaned towards Fenris and the older man was taken aback by the hate he could see flashing in Wolf's eyes for a moment. "She loved you till the moment she died. She loved my father, make no mistake, but she never forgot you; you were always in her thoughts and in her heart. Read them." He pointed to the journals again.

"That is my revenge for leaving me, and her."

And then he turned and in a flash, he was out of the tavern, and out of Fenris life. He thought he saw a great sword strapped into the lad's back before he disappeared, and his mouth curled a little into a sad, self-deprecating grin ; a warrior then. Not a mage like he had feared.

He reached for the sack of books and pulled it to himself, then emptied the contents on the table. Blindly reaching for the newest looking one of them, he leafed through it.

_We leave tomorrow_, the last entry said. _I will not leave Anders alone in the dark he fears so much, I will not abandon him, just like he stayed by my side all these years, raising my son as if he was his flesh and blood. I will not desert the man I have come to love; even if it means my boy will be left all alone. He is a strong, brave young man, and he will be alright. _

_Farewell, my son. Be strong. Be good. Be honest. Live, love, hope; as often and as wholeheartedly as you possibly can. Make mistakes, then correct them. Get angry, fight, defend those who are less fortunate than you. Be the man you dad raised you to be and the man your father could have been. _

_Fenris, you would have been proud of the son I gave you, even if you never wanted him._

_I wonder where you are. I wonder if you might ever meet the amazing young man we made that night. I wonder if you ever think of me...if the news of my death will make you sad, even for a second. I wonder...and hope, and dream that we might meet again one day, in another life...futile, useless practices that never did me any good._

_I love you both, my wolves, and will always do._

Fenris closed the book, then put it back into the sack and took to his feet. He felt...numb. Something inside him had cracked, and ice was pouring into his soul; he felt blessedly chilled, unable to think, unable to do anything than mechanically walk back to his rented little cottage.

He spent the night reading her journals, in order, from her grief and pain when he had left, to the joyous moment of his son's birth.

_Fenris, he is so beautiful. I wish you could see him, I wish you wanted to see him. He has your eyes. His toes are so small and perfect...he is so perfect. How can you not want him? He is such a little miracle._

_I have named him Leto Wolfgang Hawke. You are probably wondering about his middle name...Anders delivered him, and saved my life. There was so much blood, so much pain. I cried for you, called your name till my voice broke. You never came; but Anders was there. He saved me, and asked if he could decide the baby's middle name. I accepted; something in me died a little when I saw the way he was holding him, totally in love, with tender, shaking hands, his eyes shining with awe and wonder._

_It should have been you. Damn you, Fenris. It should have been you, you blighted fool. _

_Damn you. Why can't I stop loving you?_

Then Anders had gotten into her life, and he had to grit his teeth reading about it, feeling pangs of jealousy eating away at his gut.

_He is a gentle man, and he loves me. Forgive me Fenris, but I could stand being alone no more...I waited for you, but you never came back. Leto calls him daddy. For his shake, for the sake of the baby you didn't want, I will have Anders in my life; and for my sake too. I have fallen in love with him; he is gentle, caring, good to me, makes me feel desired and loved. I can wait for you no longer. You are not coming back...I have finally accepted it._

Tears stains on the pages. Anger when Justice used Anders to blow up the Chantry. Despair when they had to run, a young child with them, hunted from city to city until they had found a quiet little village in Felelden to hide.

Wolf's first tooth, his first lessons, his tears when some boys called him a filthy half-breed. Tales of the little boy's antics, tales of her and Anders' adventures.

And always, all over her journals, her love for him. Her desire to see him again, even from a distance. His name on her lips and in her thoughts, her shame at lying with one man and thinking of another. Anders' sadness; he had always known.

Fenris read them all, one after the other, and ached.

It appeared he had been lying to himself all this time; he had loved Hawke after all. And now...now she was dead, and his son hated him.

He reread the passage when Leto had demanded not to be called like that, when he chose the nickname Wolf for himself. When he had screamed to his dad that he hated the man who had sired him and ran off in the woods. Hawke's tears that had stained the page.

_I didn't want hate to fester in his heart as well, Fenris. Look what it did to you._

Morning had already come when he raised his head from the pages, his eyes red and hurting, his neck creaking. He looked to the ceiling of his little ramshackle cottage and admitted to himself he had been wrong, that he had loved her, that he should have stayed, that he had been a blind, stupid fool. Regret for the things he had lost charred his heart, reducing it to ash. A whole life he could have spend with her, presents given him that he had tossed away; a son, a life, love, happiness. He had been too blind to see; too blind to understand.

He whispered her name, whispered how sorry he was, hoping that she could hear him, wherever she now was.

And cried.


	2. chapter 2

**The first time I played DA:O it was with a Dalish elf, and of course I romanced Alistair. When he dumped my Warden I was shocked. No, no, I wasn't shocked, I was heartbroken. I sat there looking at the screen, tears running down my face, screaming "WHY, ALISTAIR, WHY?**

**Yeah, laugh at me. But I know it happened to most of you as well.**

**warning: character death.**

* * *

She stood on the crest of the hill, feeling numb and frozen. Lifting a hand to the pale spring sun she wondered: was she now invisible to the rays of the sun? She felt cold, chilled, as if nothing could warm her. Did even the sun reject her, recoiling from her like she was something disgusting, something that was suited to darkness and coldness alone?

A soft breeze of air, balmy and fragrant, blew past her, lifting her pitch black hair for just an instance, then letting it drop again.

For some ridiculous, illogical reason, she even saw that as rejection.

For so long now she had been soaring so high, carried to lofty heights, flying into space on invisible wings of false promises- only to be left to plummet to the ground. Helplessly watching the ground get closer and closer, she knew the fall would break her. And the man she had counted on to be there to catch her...had let her drop.

_Alistair. I loved you. And you let me fall._

Tears flooded in her eyes, but she stubbornly refused to let them trail down her face, blinking furiously. She was not good enough for the future King of Ferelden, a king she herself had put on the throne. She wasn't good enough to stand by his side on account of her blood- it was elven, and it was tainted. It was infertile_. _Three strikes against her.

But she knew...she just knew. If he loved her, just a little, he could have fought for her. He could have done something, _anything_, other than stand in front of her, bedazzling in that gilded armour, and tell her it was over.

She clenched her fists and her eyes closed; she was only good enough to fuck. It hadn't mattered that she was an elf when she had given herself to him, her first, her only. It had never mattered when he'd come to her for comfort, when she'd carried the weight of all the difficult decisions for him. It'd never counted for anything that her ears were pointed; he'd still fed them the same lies that men gave women from the beginning of time_; I love you, I want us to be together forever, marry me after the Blight_.

Soaring on artificial winds, glued together by moonlight and rainbows. How naïve of her. How utterly stupid. She should have realised there was never any future for them when he'd told her he was a prince. She should have known and stepped back while her heart was still hers to command.

The silly little poor peasant girl might get Prince Charming at the end in fairytales; but this –her life- was not a fairytale. There would be no happily ever after for her.

Tomorrow she would die.

She had been happy despite the constant fighting, despite the hardships. She had taken his offered promises of love and wallowed in them like a child in a warm shallow stream. A sad smile crossed her face- she had been happy. She had been happy. She had been. She had.

Once more she tried to convince herself that the pain was feeling now was worth it, because damn it, _damn it all to the Void_, she had been happy, even for a little while, even if it didn't last.

And tomorrow she would die.

She didn't want to breathe her last mouthful of air a bitter woman, her heart charred by despair; she didn't want to die this shell of a woman she had become. She wanted to die with the sun burnishing her green eyes to emerald, her smile blinding, her love still true, still alive.

She didn't want her last thoughts out of this world to be of betrayal and disappointment; Creators, she sought to remember the good times, the love and comfort, the silvery, sparkling pleasure of a soft touch on her flesh, the gentle thrill of a chaste kiss, the boyish smile that had made her heart stumble.

She would die tomorrow; she had given Ferelden a King, and in the process she had lost everything. Her life was all that was left of her to give; she would die for her liege. She would rather have died for the man she loved-but that man didn't exist. That man had been a lie. That man had probably never loved her. That man had discarded her like used goods. She would die for King Alistair Therein – but she had loved Ali, her Ali-bear, the flustered ex-templar, the lonely Chantry raised orphan. She had made her Ali a king, and now she was going to pay the price, by the Dread Wolf, she had already paid the price.

Creators, she didn't want to die.

She didn't want to live either.

With a sigh, she turned back and walked down the hill, the blond-haired elven shadow that had been trailing after her all these days just a few steps behind. Zevran had been there when Morrigan had made her offer; he had been there when she had rejected it. He had been there –a rock to lean on- when she had first realised she could now count the rest of her life in hours and minutes and seconds.

Zevran was always there. A deep well of pain that she couldn't deal with, because in loving one man she had not only destroyed her own heart but broken another's, as well.

Tomorrow...tomorrow she would die. Alistair would live a live he dreaded, fulfil a role he despised. And Zevran had promised to help keep the man she loved safe.

Sacrifices all around.

* * *

She was dead. She was dead. Dead, dead, dead. The word repeated itself in his mind, until the syllables meant nothing, they were just jumbled sound, no import, no substance.

Deadeadeadeadeadead.

Like gibberish. Like a mind that had been shocked out of its senses, screeching as it rocked back and forth to console itself like a forlorn child. How could she be dead? How could her brilliant soul been snuffed out? Travesties like that didn't happen, no sane god would have allowed it.

His soul rebelled, his senses reeled. He needed to see for himself. He needed to make sure. She could not be gone. She couldn't. _Maker, make her be alive_.

A new chant started in his mind, one of prayer and bargaining. _Maker, make her be alive, and I swear, I will do whatever you want. I will never think blasphemous thoughts again. I will never sin. Maker, I'll even give up cheese._

That's why he run, that's why he stormed through the streets, pushing past rejoicing throngs of soldiers, bloodied and covered in gore, holding on to each other and crying like children being woken from a terrible nightmare to see that the sun had risen again, the monsters had retreated, life could once more begin.

The blond assassin was already there when he pushed through the crowds, climbed the countless stairs, reached the burned, charred corpse of the Archdemon. He had a tiny, broken form cradled in his arms, a hand smoothing down an alabaster cheek.

Anger rose to crash like a giant black wave. He had no right to touch his Warden. He had no right to touch his woman.

He jerked her body from the assassins arms, before he realised that was all that was left of her-her body. An empty, broken shell of the woman he loved.

Zevran twisted the knife.

"She said to tell you that she loved you, and that she wishes you happiness; may you find a suitable queen and spawn many little royal heirs," the Antivan's voice was cold, ruthless, vindictive, delivering his words as he would the crippling, well placed thrust of his daggers to a victim he might want to kill –but slowly, and painfully. "She told me to give you this," he thrust something by Alistair's feet, "And tell you that your 'love'," he spat the word with derision, "was just like it: something beautiful amongst all this death. Too bad it wilted. Too bad it was doomed from the start."

Alistair was left there, staring at the brown, wilted corpse of the flower he had given her to show her his love, without really looking at it.

He threw his head back and howled his pain, just once, a long scream of fury, and pain and shame-it ended in a keening, whimpering cry- and then the tears came.

He was still crying when they took her out of his arms, when someone led him down the stairs by the hand, too shocked and frozen by grief to acknowledge anyone.

The city, the country, the whole world celebrated for days; the Blight was over before it even had begun. One woman, a Dalish elf, had singlehandedly defeated it, pushed the accursed disease back, killed the big, bad monster.

But Alistair remained in his room, and the people closest to him had to hear his sobs, had to cringe and exchange worried looks when he had thrashed the room and wondered if his grief had maddened him when he ordered all the rose bushes in the city of Denerim to be pulled out.

But, eventually, life went on. He was now the King, and he could not stay in his room forever. He emerged one day, freshly washed and with a determined gleam in his eye, and set about to become the best King that Ferelden had ever had- just because she had believed he could, and he didn't want to let her down. Not again.

In the years to come, he did find a queen. He did sire two sons and a daughter. He did become the righteous, just ruler she had seen in him.

Ferelden had prospered.

But he never smiled again-not once. That boyish, clownish smile she had so loved never again crossed his face.

And when the time came for him to go to his Calling, and for his eldest son, Duncan, to succeed him, the name he left behind was Alistair Therein, The Sad King.


	3. Chapter 3

**I was trying to write a dark fic about Anders surrendering himself to Sebastian after the events in Kirkwall, but alas, the muse went BLEH! then told me to write this little ficlet. **

**She's an evil, fickle little bitch and I hate her so much. Ugh!**

* * *

Hawke's every step was leaden, weighted down by loss. He never thought he could hurt so much, miss another living being so much. Ache so much.

He had lost his baby brother on the way to Kirkwall; his baby sister in the Deep Roads; his mother to that deranged blood mage that went around killing people in the name of love.

Everything he ever touched turned to ashes. Everything he ever loved was taken from him, or left him, walking out on him in the middle of the night, like that cruel elf had done, breaking his heart into splinters of ice and glass. If that wasn't a statement from the Maker, telling him that he was unworthy of love, then he didn't know what it was.

A ha-ha-in-your-face-buster, perhaps... The Maker's sense of humour sucked.

Hawke took another deep breath, then straightened and tossed the shovel to the side. He couldn't bear seeing the flames take him, his last friend, the last of his family. This shallow grave would have to do.

He wiped the sweat off his face with a corded forearm, then sat at the edge of the grave and took a few gulps of water from his silver flask.

"Well, old friend," he addressed the corpse next to him. "It was an adventure, wasn't it?"

But, of course, corpses never talked back, not that this one would, even when life coursed through that strong body, that was now just a pile of flesh, already starting to grow cold.

Hawke sighed. He had never felt so alone, so desperately, dreadfully lonely before. He spared another look to the body laying on its side. He had never betrayed him. Never let him down. Never denied him affection. Never questioned him.

He had died protecting him.

It was ironic; after everything, all the losses, all the death and destruction in his life, the first tears he was shedding where now...

With his dead dog on his side.

He angrily wiped the moisture from his eyes, then heaved the dead body of his mabari and lowered him slowly down the hole; boy, he was heavy. A beast of a dog, a killing machine, a wardog. But all he could remember was as slobbering, adorably awkward puppy that weaved in and out of his feet and looked at him as if the sun rose in his eyes-for his dog, maybe it did.

He started covering the dog up, feeling like ten kinds of fool. Maker, he couldn't stop crying. He couldn't draw breath. He had lost so much over these years, and never broke, never despaired; why was the loss of an animal affecting him like this?

When he finished covering the dog up, he straightened the ground. Taking his dagger out of his belt, he found a piece of wood and started carving on the smooth side, all the while sobbing – he just couldn't stop. He felt so embarrassed. But he couldn't stop.

He got up and straightened his clothes, then shoved the marker in the still soft ground, looked at it one last time, then turned around and left- alone, totally alone. No woof following him. No slobbering, panting breath dogging his footsteps. No short tail swishing as it wiggled.

The marker on the grave wrote just two words:

Best friend.


End file.
